


The Pain of Sacrifice

by multifandom_fanatic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Based on a Prompt in a Book, Break Up, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Everything Hurts, Feels, Forced Break Up, Heavy Angst, Hurt Mycroft, Hurt Sherlock, I May Have Broken These Characters, I REGRET NOTHING, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Just So Much Angst and Pain, Like So Much Angst You Will Cry, M/M, Mycroft Gives Up Everything to Save Sherlock, Mycroft Has a Break Down, Mycroft Holmes Loves Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Hurts Sherlock to Protect Him, Mycroft Lies to Protect Sherlock, Mycroft is in trouble, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Doesn't Know the Truth, Sherlock is a Mess, Unhappy Ending, feels overload, so much pain, you will die from feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 19:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11996094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multifandom_fanatic/pseuds/multifandom_fanatic
Summary: Mycroft knew what he was getting into when he and Sherlock finally crossed the line from brothers to lovers. What he wasn't expecting was for their secret to be discovered, and for their worlds to be completely shattered in the aftermath. The only way Mycroft can protect Sherlock is to sacrifice everything, including their relationship.





	The Pain of Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is what happens when I write a small Mylock one shot based on a prompt in a writing book I have called 300 Writing Prompts. This was meant to be an indulgent Mylock angst for my eyes only, but then my best friend, @Tikatikox, told me it was so good she wanted more. So, my dirty unicorn, this story is for you! I hope I am finally able to break you with all this angst and prove that I know my angst rather well ;)
> 
> This story does contain explicit incest between the Holmes brothers, so please don't read if you don't like that kind of thing.
> 
> Please feel free to comment and leave kudos! I hope everyone enjoys the story!

Sherlock tilted his head, brushing his lips across Mycroft’s jawline. “Don’t forget about me,” the younger man teased, tracing his fingers over Mycroft’s bare chest.

The older man chuckled softly. “I’m going away for a week, Sherlock; not several months.” Despite the dramatics, Mycroft tipped his head down to press his lips to the soft curls on his baby brother’s head. “I’ll call you at night.”

“Is that you promising me phone sex? I like the sound of that,” Sherlock hummed, rocking his hips down slightly into Mycroft’s.

The elder Holmes groaned, his breath catching in his throat. “Mmmm, every night, brother dear.”

Sherlock hummed happily, leaning up to press his lips to his older brother’s. “As much as I would love to take you apart right now and have you begging for me…”

“I know, I know,” Mycroft said against Sherlock’s lips. He pulled back slightly, nuzzling his nose along Sherlock’s cheek. “No explosive experiments when I’m gone, please.”

Sherlock laughed, his fingers wrapping around Mycroft’s waist to pull him closer. A loud sound broke the moment between them. The older man sighed, reaching out to grab his phone and turn the alarm off. “Don’t- wait. Just stay for one more minute,” Sherlock whispered.

“I can’t,” Mycroft answered, but he involuntarily pressed himself into Sherlock’s embrace. “You’ll manage to find your way back to Baker Street this morning?” he asked.

“Yes, Mycroft, I can manage. Shall I meet you here on Friday evening?”

The older man shook his head. “I’ll find you at Baker Street.” 

They lay in silence for a moment, and Sherlock slotted his thigh between Mycroft’s legs. The younger man pressed his leg into Mycroft’s thickening erection, and the older man moaned. Just as the politician began to buck his hips up into the pressure Sherlock was creating, the second alarm on his phone went off. 

Sherlock groaned in frustration and pulled his leg away from his older brother. “I hate you,” he grumbled as Mycroft moved to turn the alarm off.

“On the contrary, you love me. You should have woken up earlier,” Mycroft smirked, pressing a last lingering kiss to Sherlock’s temple before he got up.

The younger man propped himself up in bed, watching as the politician got dressed. “Stop staring,” Mycroft teased lightly, grabbing his pocket watch and sliding it into his suit jacket. He moved back to the bed, hovering besides Sherlock.

“I can’t help it if my brother looks incredibly sexy as he’s getting dressed,” Sherlock quipped back.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and leaned forward to kiss his baby brother one last time. “Behave,” he said, brushing a stray curl off of the younger man’s forehead.

“Yeah-huh. I’ll think about it; might take some dangerous case while you’re gone to keep myself entertained.”   
Scoffing, Mycroft stood up and made his way to the door.

“My?” Sherlock called out after him. The older man turned back to look at his brother. “Love you,” he said softly.

Mycroft smiled, a flash of warm tenderness settling low in his belly. “Love you, too, Sherlock,” he replied. His gaze lingered on the trail of hair leading down Sherlock’s stomach towards his crotch and he shook his head, breaking himself out of his reverie. With one last smile at his baby brother, Mycroft slipped out of the room and made his way to down to the car that was waiting for him outside of his house. 

\-----------------

It was Monday night, and Mycroft was bored. He has only been away from his brother for a few days but he found himself missing Sherlock more than he ever thought possible. Despite the boredom, he felt happy and sated, having just had a wonderful round of phone sex with his younger brother. He had been careful, keeping his voice low and making sure to use his private phone so as to not alert anyone of his incestous affair. He felt at ease with his life; content to balance his work along with his relationship with Sherlock.

Things were never like that for Mycroft Holmes though, and he should have known better.

The knock at his door echoed throughout the hotel room. The politician frowned. No one should be bothering him past 11 p.m. except for Anthea, and she always announced herself. Tucking his shirt back into his trousers and straightening himself up in the mirror, he moved to open the door. 

“Mr. Holmes,” the three men in black suits addressed him.

“Sirs,” Mycroft nodded, stepping aside to allow his bosses entry into his room. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked politely.

“This is a matter of extreme importance, Mycroft. We would advise that you take a seat,” Mr. Talbot said. Masking his confusion, Mycroft gracefully sat down on the couch that was propped up against the wall of the hotel room.

Mr. Talbot sat across from Mycroft in the singular seat, while the other two men stood behind him. Mr. Briarly and Mr. Lombard remained silent, but Mycroft could hardly remember a time when either of them spoke directly to him; it was usually just indirect contact over the phone.

Clearing his throat, Mr. Talbot looked at Mycroft, his gaze steady. “It has come to our attention that you have broken several laws in the last few months; laws that we do not take lightly, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow at his boss. “I’m sorry, I believe you are mistaken. I take the matter of the law very seriously-” the politician began to say.

Mr. Talbot cleared his throat and motioned for Mr. Briarly to place the manilla folder on the table in front of Mycroft. “We have obtained photographic and cryptographic evidence that you have been continuing an incesterous and sexual affair with your younger brother, Sherlock Holmes.”

Mycroft froze. His hand, which had been reaching for the manilla folder, dropped down into his lap heavily. He felt his entire body seize up, his heart racing and an itch of panic shooting down his spine. ‘Sherlock!’ his brain cried out, the urge to protect his baby brother swallowing him from the inside. He tried to form words, to come up with a feeble excuse, but nothing seemed to click in this mind. The only thing he could think about was Sherlock.

“This is not something we can sweep under the rug, Mycroft. Regardless of whether or not the relationship between you and your brother was consensual, it is still illegal. You’re looking at the possibility of seven years in prison, a large fine, and demotion of your job,” Mr. Talbot said, his face expressionless.

A panic Mycroft had never felt in his entire life washed over him, and his body reacted on impulse. He was barely able to reach over the arm of the couch and grab the trash can before he was emptying the contents of his stomach. He heaved and heaved, the waves of nausea drowning him. A wrecked sound echoed in the room and it took several long, painful seconds for Mycroft to realize the sound was him sobbing.

Mr. Lombard stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on the elder Holmes shoulder, but Mycroft shoved the hand away. He placed the bin back on the floor, and turned his gaze to Mr. Talbot. “Please,” he wailed. “Don’t- not Sherlock. This is my fault. I coerced him. I forced him. This is not on him. I’ll take the punishment, but please, not Sherlock.”

“Her Majesty is requesting-”

“I will do anything; please,” Mycroft begged, his body shaking as the uncontrollable emotions tore through his body. He didn’t even care he was having a complete break down in front of his bosses. In fact, the thought didn’t even register in his mind. The only thing he could think of was his brother. “Torture me, fire me, punish me; do whatever it takes. Leave Sherlock out of this. Don’t punish him for my actions.”

The three men looked at each other and murmured a few words before nodding. “You are taking full blame for this act of incest, Mr. Holmes? For the record, you are stating you coerced your brother into having a sexual relationship with you?”

Another sob broke free from the elder Holmes as his body heaved again. They would never understand. They could never know that not only had their relationship been consensual but it had been filled with absolute love and adoration. But he had to protect Sherlock; he couldn’t let his brother go down for this. He would take the blame, because it would actually kill him to see Sherlock punished for the sake of love.

“Y-yes. Yes, I take full blame for the incest. I coerced him,” Mycroft confessed.

The men nodded. “We shall accept this and allow Sherlock to walk free. This won’t show up on his records. But it will show up on yours, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded. “Whatever it takes.”

“You must also break things off with Sherlock. We need proof that this won’t continue,” Mr. Talbot said.

“Let me do it. But it has to be on my terms. I don’t want him knowing the truth of my punishment. I need to do it at Baker Street,” Mycroft whispered.

His bosses nodded. “We shall wire you and listen in to your conversation. You will go to Baker Street directly after this business trip to “end things”, and then go straight to the office where we will discuss the details of your punishment.”

The politician nodded numbly. “Is-is that all?” he asked, his voice weak.

“Yes, it is. We shall take our leave,” Mr. Talbot said. He stood slowly, shooting Mycroft a sympathetic look.

“My job?” Mycroft choked out.

“Her Majesty still needs you; you’re a vital piece in Her government. We shall be discussing your situation and will explain the outcome to you on Friday evening,” Mr. Talbot said. Turning away from the elder Holmes, the man walked towards the door.

“I’m sorry, Mycroft,” Mr. Briarly said, his tone surprisingly gentle. He patted Mycroft on the shoulder and turned to follow Mr. Talbot. 

Mr. Lombard opened his mouth to say something, shook his head, and shot Mycroft a look of pity. He made a move to pick up the file, but he changed his mind. He locked eyes with Mycroft, nodded at the file, and then took his leave.

Mycroft waited until the door had closed behind his bosses before he let himself completely fall apart. He dropped down against the couch and bawled. He couldn’t remember ever crying like this in his entire life. He barely managed to grab the bin before he was hurling again. Bile burnt the back of his throat and he could feel every inch of his body shaking as if he was being electrocuted.

He dropped back onto the couch, blacking out for a moment from the force of the emotional pain. He should never have let this happen. He should have been stronger when Sherlock made a move. He shouldn’t have caved. Why did he have to fall for his younger brother so many years ago? If he had been stronger he could have rejected his baby brother and they could have lived their lives without ever having tasted each other. The thought of having to let Sherlock go- never getting to touch or taste his younger brother again- was so painful Mycroft felt as if his heart were actually being torn apart.

How could he do this to Sherlock? How could he end this? His baby brother was smart; smarter than anyone Mycroft had ever known. He wouldn’t believe Mycroft if he just broke it off for no reason. He had 4 days to come up with an excuse that was believable enough. He had to hurt Sherlock; had to cause him so much pain that Sherlock wouldn’t doubt his lie.

“Oh, Sherlock, I have failed you. I’m so sorry,” Mycroft whispered.

Numbly, he reached out to grab the file from the table. He had to know; had to see how much of their relationship had been discovered. He flipped the cover open. His eyes stuck to the first image. It was him and Sherlock, stepping into Mycroft’s house. His hand was resting on Sherlock’s hip, and Sherlock’s fingers were tangled with his. The elder Holmes suddenly felt sick again. They’d been watching him closely; watching them.

He pushed the picture out of the file and watched it flutter to the floor. He felt the urge to burn it. He cast his eyes back to the evidence and he felt his blood run cold. It was a screenshot of his text messages with Sherlock. Flirty texts. Texts heavy with sexual tension. A couple of pictures Sherlock had sent him from the bedroom. Texts of love declarations. Every single text they had sent since they got together. A sudden flare of anger ran through the man. His phone was supposed to be secured. A safeline. That was the only reason they had agreed to text this way, because Mycroft’s phone was meant to be encrypted. 

The anger turned into a full-on rage. Without thinking, he picked up every picture of their texts and tore them up. He felt the paper cut into his skin as he viciously ripped the evidence up. He didn’t care. The pain in his hands grounded him. He relished the burn of the cuts, watching as droplets of his blood dyed the images bright red. He threw the shreds to the floor, the pieces blurring in his vision as he began to sob again.

He grabbed the rest of the images and flipped through them. Pictures of them cuddling in each other’s arms, pictures of them having sex in bed, images of giving each other hand jobs and blow jobs, them holding hands, cooking together, working together. The pictures just kept coming, every single scenario humanly possible. Every single action they had done together behind closed doors was documented here before his eyes. They had spied on them, using the cameras in their houses to invade private moments.

Mycroft wanted to scream, he wanted to rage and rage until there was nothing left inside of him. He wanted to kill every single person who had invaded their privacy and blown open their secret. He wanted them all to  _ burn _ .

Impulsively, he staggered off the couch, and reached into his coat pocket, finding his old lighter. Grabbing all the images he had just looked through, he moved into the bathroom, dropped them all into the sink, and promptly lit them on fire. He watched with a sick satisfaction as the images burned, crumbling into charred clumps just like his life was.

As the last of the pictures burnt away, Mycroft felt the agonizing wails of misery build up in his chest again. He doubled over, the weight of the agony swallowing him and dragging him down. Collapsing onto the floor, he curled up and let his emotions roll out of him in waves. Ripping his phone out of his pocket he saw a text from Sherlock and he let out a guttural cry. With all his strength, he hurled the phone against the wall, watching as the screen shattered and sent glass flying everywhere. 

Anthea would get him a new phone and sort all of this mess out in the morning. Tomorrow, he would devise a plan to break Sherlock to the point he would never want to step near him again. He would make Sherlock bleed; break him until he despised Mycroft with a passion.

But for now, all Mycroft could do was let the fear, pain, heartbreak, and loss pour out of him like a tsunami crashing and destroying all life it touches. He screamed and cried, destroyed anything in his reach and raged at the world; the soul-crushing realization he was utterly broken, and deep down, he knew he would never be the same again. 

\-----------------

Sherlock grinned at the sound of his brother’s footsteps climbing the stairs to 221B. Mycroft had been away on his business trip since last Friday, and the detective was desperate for Mycroft’s touch. 

It had been almost six months since Sherlock had surged forwards and kissed his brother while they had been in a massive row. Their relationship shifted immediately, and Mycroft had been the one to give Sherlock a blow job right there in the living room.

Now, as Mycroft reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock jumped out of his seat and straight into the older man’s arms. His lips found Mycroft’s and he poured all his longing into the kiss. He slipped his tongue into his brother’s mouth, chasing the delicious taste of his lover that he had been craving for the last week. The elder Holmes broke the kiss first, and the younger man whined pathetically, trying to chase Mycroft’s lips.

“Missed you,” the detective murmured.

“Sherlock... ” Mycroft whispered brokenly.

The younger man pulled back, a look of worry darting across his face. “What’s wrong?”   
Mycroft stepped away. A flash of pain crept through his eyes before The Iceman persona was firmly in place. “This, whatever is between us, has got to stop. I’m putting an end to it immediately,” Mycroft said coldly.

“Wh-what?” Sherlock stuttered out in shock.

“This,” Mycroft gestured between them, locking eyes with the younger man, daring him to challenge him.

“You’re… breaking up with me? Why? I don’t understand,” Sherlock said, his voice wavering and his eyes glossing over as tears burned his vision.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock spoke again. “Don’t you dare try and take the high ground and say this is wrong or illegal, or that you don’t love me. I’ll know you’re lying. You knew what you were getting into when we started this,” he said angrily, swiping at a tear that had slipped down his cheek.

The older man flinched slightly before drawing himself to his full height. “I’ve found someone else. I cheated on you with him while I was away on the business trip. We fucked in my hotel room Monday night after I talked to you on the phone.”

Sherlock stumbled backwards into the wall. “You’re lying. You wouldn’t do that. Not to me; not after everything we’ve been through.”

The older man made a move to open the door to 221B. “I don’t want you anymore, Sherlock. It was lust, and now I’m bored with using you,” the elder Holmes said, lying so smoothly even he believed it. 

“Fuck you, Mycroft. Fuck you. You knew how I felt about you. You knew for years how I felt and you didn’t do anything about it and then you finally give in and you end it like this?” Sherlock screamed.

“It was a mistake. It wasn’t love, it was lust. I enjoyed fucking you because it was forbidden, but I got tired of it. You’re not exciting anymore.”

The detective lunged forward, slamming Mycroft into the wall. His fist flew, slamming into the politician’s jaw. “I. Hate. You.” Sherlock cried, throwing punch after punch at his brother. “You used me! You’re fucking disgusting.”

Mycroft winced, but stood still, allowing the younger man to take his anger out on him.  

“Was I ever more than a causal fuck to you?” Sherlock cried, the anger dissipating and the pain breaking through. He pulled away from Mycroft as if he had been burned, knowing Mycroft’s answer before he even said the words out loud. The sob that broke out of Sherlock was sudden. The younger man stumbled backwards, collapsing onto the couch; a wave of heartbreaking wailing echoing around the flat. Sherlock’s body began to shake violently, and his sobs reached a level of unbearable. 

He clutched at his chest desperately, clawing at his shirt as if he could reach into his body and pull out the physical pieces of his broken heart. Mycroft lurched forward, instinctively reaching out to comfort his brother, but Sherlock lashed out, grabbing Mycroft’s wrist and twisting it as hard as he could. The older man screamed in pain, jerking away from Sherlock and bringing his injured hand to his chest.

“Was I. Ever more. Than a casual fuck. To you,” Sherlock spat, his words filled with venom but his eyes overflowing with tears.

“No,” Mycroft said simply. “You were a fucktoy to me. I’m bored of using you. I’ve found a new toy, and you mean nothing to me anymore. You’re replaceable, Sherlock, and I’ve found someone new to play with.”

Mycroft turned and fled the flat, cutting off the audio feed to his bosses. Now it was time to face his punishment for breaking the law and getting caught having an affair with his brother.

Meanwhile, Sherlock watched his brother leave the flat. The silence echoed around him, and then a strange garbled sound bounced off the walls. Sherlock was screaming. He was crying. He was falling. He was breaking. He was broken. He reached out and threw the small table at the wall. It cracked against the wallpaper and split apart into pieces. He grabbed anything he could, hurling it at the wall.   
Mrs. Hudson appeared at one point, but he screamed something so horrific at her that she burst into tears and disappeared down the stairs to her own flat.

The detective raged and raged. With every item he destroyed he felt himself shattering and crumbling into nothingness. He wasn’t even aware of the moment when the rage vanished and left him with a gaping hole of misery. He sat on the ground and howled in pain until John showed up from work. The doctor had a conniption, but he quickly calmed down and began to clean up the flat. He urged Sherlock to shower, and then pushed him into bed.

“Sleep, Sherlock. Staying awake and dwelling on it will only make the pain worse,” John said softly.

Sherlock said nothing, just watched as the doctor slipped out of his room to continue cleaning the mess he had made. He waited a few minutes for John to become absorbed in the cleaning before reaching back behind his bedpost and grabbing the small baggie he had stored there almost a year ago. What was the point in being clean when the only reason he had stopped using was for his brother? Sliding out an adequate amount of powder to make the pain stop for exactly 6 hours, Sherlock brought his hand to his nose and snorted the line, letting the high wash away the excruciating emptiness Mycroft had left behind.


End file.
